


Nor Iron Bars a Cage

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [2]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many types of prison, and not all of them have walls, locks and shackles. On the mining world of Gigalonia, a group of Autobots try to make good on a debt and a promise by ending generations of prejudice and intolerance. Their peers on Earth, meanwhile, search for answers about the resurgent Terrorcon threat. And on Cybertron, those very Terrorcons prepare to stage a most daring jail-break...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Newsy891.

“Wanna know what _really_ sticks in my craw?”

Bulkhead sighed heavily. “Not particularly, but I suppose you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“Course I’m gonna tell you. The least you can do is listen, right?”

“No… the least I can do is ignore you completely and actually get on with my mission.”

“Ah, you can do both. You’re good that way.”

“Thank you _so_ much for the vote of confidence. You do wonders for my self-image, really.”

“Least you can see your self-image,” the other sniffed. “On account of being alive and all.”

Bulkhead swivelled his scanners to the right. If he’d been in robot mode, he’d have nailed Storm Jet with a cold, hard stare. That wasn’t exactly possible for a green-and-white helicopter, though. And it was highly likely the slightly transparent, neon-blue outline of his deceased comrade wouldn’t much care about the rebuke, anyway.

“What really sticks in my craw,” Storm Jet continued, the words drifting from his ghostly vehicle mode, “is that you _got_ a chance to be a Wrecker. Not me. The Mayhems wiped out the crew before I could join, and then you flounced around for centuries without recreating the idea. I died a decade ago and you _still_ haven’t taken the hint to up and start the Wreckers again.” He muttered a curse. “I was never gonna be a Wrecker… Primus spurned me the day I came on-line.”

Bulkhead laughed slightly at the religious reference. Time was many Transformers had outright rejected the idea of having a god; of being created by a superior being. The havoc wreaked by Unicron had gone some way to opening atheist optics – witnessing their planet transform into an impossibly huge robot had silenced all doubts. The population of Cybertron was now split down two lines: those full of the smug self-importance of long-time faith, and those desperately seeking to “atone” before their own entry to the Well of All Sparks.

He wasn’t surprised in the slightest that Storm Jet was among the newly-converted. Being a ghost would bring about all sorts of sudden religious devotion.

“You were never going to be a Wrecker anyway – not for long,” Bulkhead said evenly. “You were a reckless fool when Scavenger first considered enlisting you – a loose cannon with wings. You’d have been slagged within a couple of missions, especially with the ‘cons ramping up their war plans. And after the crew was wiped out, it was only a matter of time before you joined them… fancy strapping an arsenal to yourself and zipping around with it, all cycle every cycle! The only real luck you’ve ever had, Storm Jet, is that you didn’t go nova aeons earlier, that another mech didn’t think of the idea of detonating your stockpile before Sharkticon did.”

Storm Jet was silent for a moment. Then, with a disgusted “harrumph”, he vanished.

Bulkhead smiled inwardly, grateful for the silence. After the Battle of Iacon, he’d stopped questioning his ghostly visits and haunting visions. Perhaps it was the effects of the processor disease CINS – combat induced neural surge – as Red Alert kept reminding him. But maybe it was something else… maybe he could talk to the dead.

In the midst of that horrid battle he’d seen his old comrades, the Wreckers; heard their voices. The experience had granted him peace and comfort, a way to cope with the sensations that regularly assaulted his senses. Bulkhead no longer cared whether he was mentally ill or possessed of a second sight: he could handle the ghosts, and that was enough.

Besides, it meant he always had company on these long, dull courier trips across the muddy purple plains of Gigalonia.

He checked his co-ordinates and made a slight heading alteration. Storm Jet had, as per usual, knocked him a few degrees off course. He sighed again. The trips were much more fun when Wing Sabre shared the travel time – the aerial mech was full of stories, tales of how the Wreckers were tearing up the afterlife. ‘Sabre had even settled his feud with Steamhammer, funnily enough, to the point where they were drinking buddies.

That sort of thing made Bulkhead extremely hopeful, for both himself and the situation on Gigalonia. If, in the world after this one, murderers and victims could share a can of 40-weight, maybe even the most pointless war could be redressed.

\-----

He ran the footage a third time, leaning closer to the screen. It started with a tight focus on Dr Misha Jones, a woman about to give the speech of her scientific career. The image wobbled – not through cameraman error, but because the whole place was shaking badly.

The point of view spun around, hard and fast, to the left. Through the dust and gloom loomed two massive, bestial figures that, eventually, revealed themselves as Divebomb and Battle Ravage. The condor’s voice echoed through the auditorium – “These humans, and their research now belong to the True Path… every other life here is forfeit” – and people began to scream.

Then the footage ended, replaced with a typical TV station “technical difficulties” message.

For the third time, Scattorshot grunted with frustration. “Ain’t no way to be runnin’ a TV station,” he drawled to himself. “Time was humans’d go huntin’ for decent news stories, not clip ‘em off t’ air as soon as it got hairy.” He thought of Battle Ravage and laughed at his accidental joke.

Scattorshot reached out and ejected the disc from the view screen. It was tiny in his hand and he held it delicately, though he was convinced it was of no further use to him. “Nightbeat might be able to make somethin’ o’ this,” he said to the empty control room, “but it’s got me beat.”

He’d had the mad idea that the footage, taped by Koji, might hold some vital clue. _Typically dumb idea o’ mine._ Somehow, two Terrorcons had made it into the downtown area without being spotted by thousands of humans going about their day. Indeed, they’d popped up outside of a major tourist attraction, immediately opposite a McDonald’s and underneath the monorail line, and nobody had noticed them before they’d crashed through the wall.

Stranger still, the media wasn’t making anything of the incident. While the disappearances of Dr Misha Jones and her husband, Joshua, had been reported, there was no mention of 50 foot tall jungle cats as prime suspects. Scattorshot knew his leader, Ultra Magnus, had ways of keeping Transformer-related events out of the news but he doubted even the Big Bot’s influence stretched into the offices of editors.

“That’s a mystery for ‘nother day,” he told himself, fighting off his insecurities. “Need to concentrate on one at a time.” He looked down at the disc in his hand and sighed. “And, seein’ as I don’t have anythin’ better t’ do…”

The view screen flickered to life once more and the footage ran again. Seized by a sudden impulse, Scattorshot did something different. He closed his optics – obscured behind his visor – and watched the recording through his other senses.

Scattorshot was the most near-sighted mech to roll out of the Plasma Energy Chamber. But while embroiled in the Planet Key quest, ten years earlier, he’d found himself at the centre of a strange explosion. Both he and his fellow victim, Starscream, had been imbued with super-mechanical powers as a result. The ‘con had grown null-ray swords in his arms; Scattorshot had upped his arsenal _and_ upgraded his software package.

The little blue half-track tank could now “see” data, augmenting his poor vision with stimuli received directly through the yellow discs on his forehead. He didn’t watch clouds so much as he analysed meteorological data; didn’t stare at the ground but rather soaked up metallurgical and geological information to create a whole picture.

He now turned these traits to the view screen, allowing his senses to pick apart the pixels and reorganise them. Scattorshot had been peering at the image and trying to see the fine details. The discs would break down each segment of the footage by colour and resolution, in turn telling him what the screen was trying to evoke.

As he “watched” Divebomb transform, the answer was suddenly as clear as the mountain air outside Fortress Maximus. “Seawater,” he breathed, nearly hypnotised by the tiny dots dripping from the bird-bot’s technorganic wings. “They came up through th’ bay. How in blazes did they swim through th’ water without somethin’ picking ‘em up?”

A sudden thought hit him. “Hey – I did it!” he whooped, spinning in the command chair and punching the air. “I figured it out!” His boast echoed through the empty room, louder and louder, and he covered his mouth in shame. “Oops.”

Scattorshot lowered the chair back to floor level and stood up, stretching out to his full (if tiny) height. All in the name of trying to act nonchalantly. “Guess th’ only way I’m gonna find out is t’ go have a look see. Aw, what the heck – I need a little bit o’ exercise, anyway.”

But should he ask one of the others to go with him? Koji would likely say no. The boy had locked himself in his human-sized room, now that his possessions had been transferred, and politely asked not to be disturbed. That had sent Jazz into a frenzy of worrying, to the point he had to be ordered to leave the kid alone. Scattorshot would have liked Koji’s insight and input but wasn’t willing to “pull a Jazz” on him.

Armourhide drove him to distraction, most of the time. Plus, he stank. If he wasn’t caked in some sort of filth or muck from one of his precious “covert scouting missions”, he reeked of rocket fuel or high explosive. Not the sort of guy you wanted to take to a crime scene, no matter how inconspicuous his alt mode was. Speaking of, alt modes ruled out asking Magnus or Jazz – they’d been on the scene, and there was every chance someone would remember a giant white-and-blue car carrier or a jet black Bugatti.

Considering the standing orders about unit seven, that left just two choices: one or both sides of The Ongoing Ethical Debate.

“Terrific,” Scattorshot muttered. “Maybe I’ll just go by myself after all. My aural sensors ain’t in need o’ a batterin’.” He slumped. “But you ain’t gonna do that, are ya? Oh no… you’re Scattorshot, everyone’s li’l buddy, and ya just can’t leave someone wallowin’ in their misery if ya can help it.” He shook his head at himself. “Ya big sucker.”

\-----

His destination in sight, Bulkhead angled down and to the left, sweeping low – careful not to damage the steel container strapped to his underside. He swept across the top of the mountains and descended again, into the heart of the spot Thundercracker had dubbed “the valley of the midgets”. This was the home of the Flyers, the smaller of Gigalonia’s two populations. Each of the tiny, insect-like robots bore the Decepticon symbol though they did not share that faction’s politics or goals.

As the Autobots had learned, the insignias of both sides were sourced deep within the history of their race and had been adopted, for many different reasons, many times over the centuries. On worlds like Gigalonia, colonised by ancient, exiled Transformers, the symbols demarcated different allegiances but weren’t always easily reconciled with Autobot or Decepticon thinking.

_Something Optimus and Omega have to deal with every day,_ Bulkhead thought grimly. _The Grounders bear our mark, but their racism and intolerance makes them a breeding ground for Decepticon ideology. Seeing as they’re frigging huge, that’s a result we can’t allow._

He heard the excited babbling of the Flyers; watched as they began to congregate around his usual landing spot. Some chanted his name, knowing he was bringing the Energon and tools they so desperately needed to survive. Bulkhead liked the accolades but, at the same time, was saddened by them. No race, irrespective of their sins, deserved such torment when, in the final analysis, all would be one. _Especially if I might be forgiven mine._

For centuries, the Flyers had deceived their gigantic co-inhabitants. They’d allowed the Grounders to mine the planet for its resources while they’d allegedly shipped them back to “the home world”. In fact, the tiny robots had used the raw materials to construct towering, elaborate battle suits for themselves. Initially, such resorts had been based in fear – in the earliest days of the colony, the Flyers had been eradicated as non-sentient vermin. Under the control of community leaders Rumble and Frenzy – and the machinations of the power-hungry Grounder called Blender – those goals had altered to planetary conquest.

Nightbeat, Thundercracker, Arcee, Checkpoint and Omega Supreme had put paid to those plans, taking Rumble and Frenzy into custody. As soon as they’d left, the Grounders had resumed their eradication process – now driven by anger over the deception and the Flyers’ role in the murder of their leader, Metroplex. By the time Omega had returned, with Bulkhead and Autobot commander Optimus Prime in tow, the population had been decimated and all but imprisoned in the valley that once housed its Molediver factory.

Circumstances had sat poorly with Optimus. He’d risked his very existence by entering the Creation Matrix and securing the help of Metroplex’s ghost. The giant had assisted in exchange for Prime’s promise to “take care” of Gigalonia. Though he’d given his vow, the Autobot leader had refused to let the Flyers – sentient beings, therefore deserving of freedom in his view – suffer under Grounder oppression. His new charges were less than impressed with his mercy, and only the Purple Planet Key he held kept Optimus safe from a very dangerous… and very _large_ … coup.

_Ten years,_ Bulkhead sighed inwardly. _We left for this miserable mudball right after Tow-Line’s funeral. And in all that time, we’ve done little more than slow the Flyer death rate._

Thoughts of Tow-Line gave him pause. The journalist was one of the first mechs affected by Bulkhead’s condition – the former Wrecker had beaten him senseless when in a panicked state. It was inexcusable behaviour, easily worthy of a court martial, but Tow-Line had kept silent. Bulkhead never had the chance to repay him for his friendship… the journalist had been cruelly murdered by the demented Nemesis Prime, just after the Battle of Iacon.

Others he had wronged – Vector Prime, Silverstreak, Override – had either moved on from the core team or kept wide of his presence. Driven by a need to make amends, Bulkhead had volunteered for the Gigalonian mission, and been shocked when he was accepted. His disbelief lasted only until they were in flight, and Optimus had stopped to speak with him.

“Bulkhead,” his leader, resplendent in his then-new chassis, had intoned, “I have to inform you that this is your _last_ chance. I’m fully aware of what you’ve done… in this and in other time periods… and I’m telling you it’s to stop. No other command will have you, no senior officer will take responsibility for you, and Silverstreak wants to take your head off from 100m away. I’m giving you this chance to prove you can still be part of the team; still contribute something of value. But if you let me down, I’m afraid you’ll face court martial and dismissal _at best._ Are we clear?”

They were, and Bulkhead had worked diligently at being a model Autobot. The stern looks from Omega Supreme had worked wonderfully as a reminder.

“Bladed one,” said a tinny voice from below. “Why do you pause in your descent?”

Embarrassed, Bulkhead dropped the last few feet to ground level. The cargo container landed with a dull thud; he loosed the mooring lines and transformed to robot mode. A mass of Flyers swarmed over the featureless grey box, tearing it open and passing out the goodies. More locals crowded around him, standing shorter than his knees, and offered thanks and praise. One hung back, his arms folded and his expression pleasant.

Bulkhead extricated himself from the masses and strode across to the watcher. He was a yellow type – one of the three Flyer sub-races. Through a quirk of Transformer genetics, the midget population had been endowed with super-mechanical powers. Rumble and the red types could generate seismic force. Frenzy and his blue brethren controlled sonics. This one… he who had assumed leadership following the arrest of the criminal duo… and the rest of the yellow types had considerable mastery over electricity and magnetism.

“We thank you, bladed one,” he said, extending a fragile hand in greeting. “This will allow us to exist for a few more cycles, at least.”

The Autobot stooped and took the offered hand. “That’s our pleasure, Kremzeek,” he said, completing the customary greeting. “Optimus sends his regards.”

Kremzeek smiled. “He is such a wonderful mech,” he said, his voice tickling with static and feedback. “Sometimes I wonder what we’d ever have done, if not for his arrival.”

\-----

“There it is.”

“Or, rather, there it _isn’t,_ ” Chromia corrected.

“Which is the sheer brilliance of it,” Cruel Lock replied. “He might not have been much chop as a warrior but, when it comes to security, Checkpoint is one smooth operator.”

They were on the edge of the Tagon Heights, looking out over the Rust Sea of Cybertron – more specifically, the tidal area covering the Hydrax Plateau. The former space port now spent a goodly portion of every cycle submerged, thanks to the planet’s adopted, hideous moon. Cruel Lock spared a glance upward. Unicron’s head was, slowly but surely, being strip-mined and reformatted into a world for the Mini-Con race. In ten Earth years, the little twerps had managed to cleave all the armour from one side of the demonic visage.

He grinned horribly, flashing his teeth. The True Path had spent the last decade much more fruitfully.

Cruel Lock turned his attention back to the Plateau, and the secrets beneath it. “The Autobots are arrogant enough to believe no one will try to invade their reclaimed territory,” he sneered. “Checkpoint alone realised that, as long as the Autobots hold prisoners and plentiful Energon, the planet will remain a Decepticon target.”

His tail went rigid as a voice, hollow and ethereal, spoke from behind him. “We’re not Decepticons,” it whispered.

The True Path’s second-in-command did not look at the speaker. He didn’t want to. Yes, melding the organic with technology was an essential part of their religion. And yes, Cruel Lock had issues with those – including his current team mates, Chromia and Sharkticon – who spurned or delayed undergoing the process. They were imperfect, they were unfinished… but at least they weren’t _utterly disgusting._

Bludgeon was. A survivor of the rout at Iacon, the electricity-wielding tank had eagerly adopted the teachings of the Path, all the while rasping about “dark powers unleashed”. The problem was his peculiar bent on the Transmetal process. While Cruel Lock and his fellow Terrorcons had taken on flesh, feathers and hide, Bludgeon had experimented with _bone._ He’d grafted huge amounts of ivory calcium onto his golden frame… his bladed weaponry… even his very face. The end result was a Transformer part skeleton, part hideously dangerous _metallikato_ martial artist.

“No, Bludgeon, we’re not Decepticons,” Cruel Lock finally agreed, his fleshy neck bursting with goose pimples. There was something about this soldier that chilled him right down to his stolen marrow. The similarities between the cold warrior and the grinning, half-stripped moon above were not lost on him. “Our targets, however, _are_. At least for now. Once they accept our generous offer, they’ll be of the Path.”

“And,” Sharkticon piped up, “you’ll be stuck with two more mechs who’ll refuse to get all gooey for the boss.”

Cruel Lock’s nostrils flared. “Only the foolish spurn the gift of true existence,” he snapped. “Speaking of which, I understand Predacon wants to speak to you after this mission, Sharkticon. I believe the schematics for your perfected body have been completed, pending your transformation.”

The coward gulped loudly, and Chromia sniggered.

“The genius of Checkpoint,” he said, steering the conversation onto more productive topics, “is his choice of location. Thanks to the Mini-Con moon, the Rust Sea now has tides – waves that submerge this area for half-cycles at a time. The particles within the sea will eventually erode away all remnants of the space port, so the place is useless for any form of construction.” He laughed. “Well, any construction _above_ ground.”

He gestured with an emerald Energon claw. “In the centre of that mess, flush with the surface of the planet, is a door. Beneath it lies 26 levels of detention cells, interrogation rooms, stasis fields and, for the really recalcitrant, punitive CR chambers that keep you alive, but leave you permanently off-line. It’s the dark secret of the Autobot peace; the tarnished impurity in their steely ‘freedom’. A prison as harsh and as oppressive as anything our former comrades could – or did – dream up.

“We’re going to break into that prison for the express purpose of freeing two inmates,” he growled. “They’ll then be given the choice: adapt to the ways of the Path, or die in their cells.” He savoured the shock crossing the face plates of Chromia and Sharkticon. “Our lord Predacon feels such poor, unfortunate Sparks should be granted freedom by whatever means necessary,” he said nastily.

“Guess I’ll need to be persuasive,” Chromia muttered.

“You’re good at that,” Sharkticon quipped.

Cruel Lock smiled again, his good humour returned. So he was allied with freaks and agnostics for this mission – so what? It hardly mattered. Predacon and Predacon alone had recognised his immense tactical ability, a skill that had passed unnoticed for a millennia. His lord had even sacrificed the first of his great plans to save Cruel Lock’s life, back in the Plasma Energy Chamber.

The quality of his troops was of no importance. He was of the True Path, owing many a debt to his priest and lord. His zeal would be enough; his loyalty and dedication the blades that would cut through prison walls and bring Predacon what he so desired.

And what Predacon desired was the allegiance of the two most dangerous Decepticons ever to be incarcerated… Wheeljack and Crumplezone.


	2. Chapter 2

_The emptiest vessel makes the greatest noise, Inferno. Remember that, especially in G Division. It will be incredibly silent; it will take its toll on your nerves. But you must persist. If not for you, and the walls of those cells, sheer terror would be loosed on the good mechs and femmes of Cybertron. That is something we cannot allow._

Inferno and Checkpoint had been friends for many years. Prior to the war, they’d worked together as a search and rescue team. When the Autobot cause came a-calling, Inferno had ended up in the regular infantry while Checkpoint had become a specialist – part of the SWAT team with that show-off know-all jerk Nightbeat. The Battle of Iacon came and went; Checkpoint became a hero and a permanent member of Optimus Prime’s core battalion. Inferno, meanwhile, was given a pat on the back, some Energon rations and a chit for a patch of land “with the thanks of the Autobot army”.

Slag that for a joke.

So when his old friend had looked him up and asked for his help with a new project, Inferno had leaped at the chance. He’d requested – and, after much diplomatic garbage, recovered – his old weaponry, polished up the Autobrand he’d refused to remove and waded through the muck of the Hydrax Plateau, as ordered. The last thing he’d expected from it all was to become the guardian of the Silent Chamber.

That’s what all the guards called it… the Silent Chamber. Checkpoint hated the name – with his usual obsessive/compulsive ways, the security chief had _insisted_ mechs refer to it as G Division, Level 26 or, at the very least, the maximum security wing. But the nickname stuck, and was more appropriate given the clientele.

G Division housed just two prisoners: the remorseless killers Crumplezone and Wheeljack. Neither of whom had spoken a word in 10 years.

The pair was precisely the reason Checkpoint had sought out his old buddy. He knew – heck, everyone knew – that ol’ Inferno was your first stop if you wanted heroism, selflessness and the best marksman this side of Silverstreak. There literally wasn’t anything Inferno wouldn’t do if it guaranteed the safety of others and so he’d spent every day for a decade – barring rest periods – keeping an optic on the freaky brothers, letting the itch build in his trigger finger just in case.

It was extremely rare for an Autobot to be given a “shoot first, ask questions later” order, but that was the SOP when it came to those two and, especially, Wheeljack. No one was willing to go into the cells to take either ‘con offline and chuck them in a CR chamber, so the traditional methods were the only way. None of which was a problem in the fire engine’s mind.

Problem was, the _quiet_ was starting to get to Inferno.

He’d first noticed it two… no, three years ago. It had been a typical day with nothing to do – he’d been polishing his arm-mounted cannon/fire hose, to be exact – when the noise started. It was like a dripping faucet… a constant staccato beat that bored into his processor and played with his perceptions. Not that he ever raised it with anyone. Within six months, Inferno was convinced Megatron himself was in the air ducts, dripping acid on the cell ceilings to slowly, stealthily break out his pet murderers. At the end of that year, Checkpoint – himself no stranger to paranoia – had found Inferno firing into the ceiling.

He’d calmed his friend down. He’d told Inferno all about the old Earth saying – empty vessels and noise – and assured him no one could make it to the depths of G Division. He’d even offered a few shifts on the upper levels with the normal prisoners just to take the edge off.

All of which Inferno had declined. The Autobot army might consider him fit to be recycled, but he knew better. Checkpoint had given him his new ticket, and he wasn’t about to punch it out over something as silly as a drip. He’d strapped on his cannon and gone back on the beat, listening intently to all the sounds that punctured the silence. Soon, he knew them all. He could tell a frying circuit from a door lock malfunction, or the difference between a squeaky panel and a shorted electro-bar.

The installation of auto guns, trained on the prisoners at all times, had been no small help, either.

Inferno stomped across to the cell doors and took in the sights. Crumplezone was in his usual spot – the right rear corner of the cell, hunched over, tiny head between his knobbly knees. His over-sized shoulders and arms seemed to wrap around him like a blanket and, as always, he was rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

Wheeljack was in the dead centre of his cell, directly beneath the harsh overhead light. His legs were crossed and his hands on his knees, arms rigid and back straight. His optics were dark and a thick layer of dust coated his shoulders and the tops of his horns. Inferno made a quick guess, based on experience, that the thickness of the dust meant the ‘con hadn’t moved in three weeks.

“New record, freak job,” he growled, expecting no answer and receiving none. “Maybe you could do us all a favour and just not move again.” He laughed nastily and slapped his cannon against the bars just to hear the sizzle.

Feeling better, he sauntered back to his chair and settled in. “Dunno why I ever worried,” he sniffed, lifting up a data pad to thumb through the latest issue of _Blasters and Ammo._ “Nobody ever escaped by keeping quiet.”

\-----

Two loud knocks startled him, breaking his concentration and sending him tumbling to the floor. Downshift scrabbled to throw the stool out of the way and point the most heavily-shielded parts of his body at the door. _Gotta get around to installing thicker plating on my back,_ he chided himself. _I’m not gonna be luck forever._

“Hey, uh, Downshift?” drawled a familiar voice. “C’n I come in? You busy?”

The engineer took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Tis some visitor rapping at my chamber door,” he whispered, “only this and nothing more.” He raised his volume. “Yeah, Scattorshot, you can come in – gimme a sec while I deactivate the door.”

He pulled himself to his feet, emerald bodywork flashing under the workbench spotlights, and walked over to the door. After first checking it really _was_ Scattorshot – thermals, weight impressions, energy signature and a visual scan all matched – he unlocked 18 deadbolts, unlatched six chains, decommissioned the electric field and entered the 216-digit code. Grasping the massive door crank with both hands, Downshift hauled it counter-clockwise and pulled the 18-inch thick portal open.

“Hey little guy,” he panted, “what’s up?”

Scattorshot walked in – far too fast for Downshift’s liking. He hoped the kid, good-natured as he was, wouldn’t try to sit down anywhere, or pick anything up. So many of his projects were unfinished, and any one of them would be lethal to the little 2IC of the RIDs. He just didn’t have the armour ( _another thing to do: upgrade everyone’s plating next maintenance cycle_ ) to cope with these weapons, shields, defence mechanisms and stun traps without sustaining permanent damage. None of Downshift’s inventions were non-lethal until they were complete, as much as that pained him to admit.

For a moment, the engineer missed the heady days before the Planet Key Quest… when everything he made either blew up, blew up other things, or blew off pieces of his body. For a second, he longed for a time when Red Alert would grumble while reattaching his old right arm, or erstwhile left leg, for the third time in a week. Briefly, he wished he could go back to the days when Kicker would run through the lab grabbing stuff before the two of them would hit the back blocks to “rearrange the local scenery”.

But only for a moment. Tow-Line’s face was too omnipresent to lose focus for long.

“Thought y’ might like t’ get outta here for a while,” Scattorshot continued, picking a clear spot on the floor in which to stand. “Got me a lead on where them ‘cons mighta come from, and I could use a mech o’ science to brainstorm wit’ me. Innerested?”

Downshift shook his head. “Not so much,” he said, the displays on either side of his head flashing. “Thanks for stopping by, though.”

Scattorshot fixed him with a stern look. “Professor,” he said, falling back on the old nickname. “I can politely request th’ company o’ a friend or, as yer commandin’ officer, I can order ya ta come gimme yer expert opinion.” He smiled wryly. “I know which one’s gonna make for a more fun day, though.”

The engineer sighed, slumping his broad shoulders. “Has to be me, eh?”

“You or Rodimus, yeah.”

Downshift rankled. That sank it. “I’m ready to leave when you are,” he said stiffly. “You did say you needed an _expert_ opinion, not the babblin’ of a faith healer.”

He brushed past the smaller Autobot, headed for the corridor. “Kinda figured ya might see it that way,” Scattorshot laughed as he went by.

\-----

“Behold… the future of our race!”

Storm Jet snorted. “This must be why Grounders step on the little dweebs,” he remarked snidely. “They’re so utterly useless that they can’t even be considered endearing. I’ve got more time for humans than I do these jokers.”

Bulkhead fired an elbow into his ghostly antagonist’s midsection. The blow did not connect, of course, but the breeze it created caused the spectral blue projection to break up and swirl around. _Just as effective as it was back in the day,_ Bulkhead grinned.

Still, the dead would-be Wrecker had a point. For all the pomp and circumstance Kremzeek had arranged, for all the secrecy about his “big announcement”, the pay-off was… well, small. Bulkhead chanced a glance at Optimus Prime and Omega Supreme. The latter looked bored, as if fighting back a yawn. Their leader was, of course, the very picture of diplomacy.

“It’s… very well-constructed,” Optimus said, clearly struggling for words. The red-and-silver robot strode across to the device – suspended, as it was, in the centre of the valley – and cast an optic over its structure. “But what is it, Kremzeek?”

The tiny yellow robot scrabbled around them; the four legs of its vehicle mode working overtime. Spider-like, Kremzeek climbed the steep, round sides of the device and perched atop it, pride and arrogance evident in his pose.

“It’s a water wheel!” he cried, and the hundreds of Flyers crowded on either side of the valley cheered. “This is the key to self-sufficiency for our people!”

“A water wheel?” Omega rumbled.

“Primitive tech pioneered by humans,” Bulkhead offered in a whisper. He often forgot the towering giant had spent little-to-no time on Earth during his military career. “You place it beneath a waterfall, and the liquid drives the wheel around and it drives some turbines, generating…”

“Electricity,” Omega nodded, catching the intent. “With Kremzeek, what else would it be?”

“At least he’s productive… all his predecessors could do was break rocks and eardrums.”

Optimus rapped his knuckles on the water wheel’s axle, cocking his head to listen for the echo. “Solid construction,” he said again, obviously pacing himself. “And I’m sure these turbines” – he gestured to the pitiful engines mounted on either side of the central spindle – will give some level of output. There seems to be just one problem.”

“Problem?” Kremzeek asked, his cockpit lifting anxiously.

The Autobot leader gestured to the valley. “There’s no water,” he said simply. “You have the perfect catchment for such a device, but not the means to drive it.” He took a deep breath. “I can’t believe this to be the best use for the resources we’ve given you, Kremzeek.”

Quickly, the head of the Flyers changed back to robot mode. “That’s where you’re wrong, benefactor,” he said, not impolitely. “It’s a water wheel in name only. Red types…” His volume rose, and his arms swept wide, “Commence!”

The ground beneath Bulkhead’s feet shuddered and jumped, almost knocking him off-balance. As he righted himself, he saw what he’d missed before – a large group of crimson Flyers perched around the base of a nearby mesa. Hundreds of miniature pile-drivers were slamming into the ground, shaking the rocky outcrop to pieces. No, not the outcrop itself – looking closer, Bulkhead saw torrents of purple mud cascading from the natural structure. It quickly grew to a deluge that threatened to swamp them all.

“Kremzeek,” Omega warned, turning his multiple blasters toward the oncoming landslide. “I would suggest immediate action – our time is limited.”

“Belay that order,” Optimus said, placing himself squarely in Omega’s sights. “I think I can see where this is going.” He turned to Kremzeek. “Time for the blue types?”

Kremzeek laughed with delight. “Most wise, most wise you are,” he chuckled. He leaped from the wheel and danced lightly across to the axle, back toward the gathered Autobots. “The order has, in fact, already been given.”

“So I see,” Bulkhead murmured. Hundreds of blue Fliers had silent taken up positions along either side of the cascading mud, initiating half-transformations in their wrists and hands. Sonic emitters folded into place and activated. Their frequency was far above audible range but Bulkhead could feel it in his bearings and hex-bolts… the inaudible noise was cutting deep.

In front of them, the mud began to change shape. Its consistency grew thinner and thinner, then it became totally fluid. Purple water sloshed toward the valley and plunged over the edge of the chasm, the made-to-order waterfall whirring to life. Turbines flared and, with staccato flashes of pink light, began to spit out Energon cubes. Yellow Fliers scrambled to collect the near-constant stream of useable energy and dump it into collection bins.

“You’re exciting the mud on a molecular level, forcing it to change state back to a true fluid,” Optimus breathed, obviously impressed. “Any useless particles in the mud would be left behind on the ground, caught up and filtered out, effectively, by the rough surface of the planet.”

Kremzeek was beaming. “We need no longer beg supplies from you, Optimus Prime,” he said proudly. “After 10 years, we are almost self-sufficient. Now, we must ask something new of you, our great benefactor.”

Bulkhead was only half-listening to the conversation. Something had caught his optic… a shimmering, a flash of colour where there should only have been purple. He could have sworn he saw something neon green and brow darting across the top of the mud flow, running fast with legs widely splayed. But there was nothing there… naught save a slight flickering of the light.

Optimus placed one hand on his shoulder, recapturing his attention. “I think it’s a fair deal, don’t you?” he asked.

“Agreed,” Omega boomed. “As Kremzeek noted, this is another step toward the independence of the Fliers. The trouble will come from making the approach to the Grounders.”

“Let me worry about that,” Optimus said gently. “What do you think, Bulkhead?”

The helicopter grimaced. “I think I need to apologise. Something over there caught my attention and I think I tuned out for a minute or three. What are we talking about?”

He watched as the senior mechs shared a look. “To power their wheel, the Fliers require water,” Optimus said patiently. “They can create it from mud, but there aren’t enough large stockpiles of mud in this area to fulfil their quota. Kremzeek has asked us to approach the Grounders with an offer to _purchase_ the mud left over from their mining and construction efforts – purchases to be paid for with the excess Energon produced. I’m thinking we should act on their behalf, stand as their spokespeople… but I want the agreement of the team. What do you think?”

Optimus Prime was asking _his_ opinion? Bulkhead felt slightly giddy. From day one, he’d written the Autobot leader off as a jumped-up archivist, a joke destiny had played on the Transformer race. But this… this was the sort of thing Scavenger would do, in the glory days of the Wreckers. He’d want all his mechs to have their say and, while the final decision would still be his, the choice would therefore be an informed one. For Optimus to not only do the same thing but to seek out the counsel of a borderline traitor was… _humbling._

“I say we go for it,” Bulkhead replied. “The worst they can do is say no and they’d be stupid to take that course – you’re the mech with the Planet Key, after all.”

The Autobot leader pulled the purple artefact from his subspace pocket and flipped it, idly, with one hand. “Let’s just hope that’s enough of a reason for them to listen,” he said darkly.

\-----

“No prison is impregnable,” Sharkticon chortled. “There was this one time me, Slugslinger and Shockblast…”

“I have no interest in war stories,” Cruel Lock sniffed, “especially _Decepticon_ war stories. You and Chromia have your mission – carry it out.”

The larger mech cowered back. “Sorry, boss, sorry,” he pleaded. “We’re outta here.” And with that, he transformed and dove under the Rust Sea. He surfaced a few hundred metres away, still powering through the murky, particle-heavy fluid that covered the plateau.

“Pleasant memories?” Chromia asked over the internal com-link.

Sharkticon didn’t answer. _Of course they are,_ he thought to himself. _It’s not every day one gets to slag an entire platoon of Autobots, while injured, and get away clean._ He growled slightly. _Well, not entirely clean._

“What I don’t get,” Chromia continued, her razor-edged sing-song voice grating in his aural receptors, “is _why_ you keep up the cowardly act. You’re the worst serial killer this planet’s ever seen – your kill tally exceeds that of Starscream and Soundwave put together, I’d wager. Yet you bumble about like a hopeless idiot, fouling things up and kneeling before scum like Cruel Lock. All you need to do now is spout off some poetry and you’ll be a real class-A loser.” She sighed. “I know I’ve been asking this for years, but here I go again: why?”

Again, he kept silent. He slid back under the water and cut his engines, drifting for a moment. He watched as Chromia passed overhead in skiff mode and then, at the right moment, transformed and drove his fist into the centre of her underbelly.

The femme yelped and rolled over, her decks and cannons splashing into the tide. Immediately she started to transform but Sharkticon was too fast. Powerful fingers dug into her hull, keeping it from splitting open and releasing the robot inside. He allowed her just enough slack to poke her head through, then locked his arm servos. Chromia writhed and wriggled within her protective cocoon, all to no avail.

Sharkticon leaned in close. “Some mechs kill for glory, some for a cause,” he hissed, his emerald optics flashing. “Others are glory hounds, revelling in carcasses like that idiot Soundwave. But me… I kill for _me_. I kill because I like it. The only thing I like better is being left alone to kill my way, on my clock, on my terms. And I guarantee that freedom by acting the fool.”

Chromia sniggered. “I hope that’s a money-back guarantee, fish face,” she sneered, “because you’re going to need it. This little tantrum of yours is about to cost you your precious cover. Or did you forget I watched you butcher those miners right here, all those years ago? And don’t even think about killing me – I’ve left evidence about you in the base’s computers. It’s time-coded and will be released to all the Terrorcons unless I deactivate the command protocols.”

She grinned. “I wonder how long your freedom will last when Predacon learns about your skills, hmm? Maybe he’ll find a nice front-line posting for you – maybe even in _command_ of some of the mechs – and use you to your fullest potential. Won’t that just be darling?”

He growled, then released his grip. Chromia’s cocoon snapped shut and she waited, upside-down, for him to move. With another growl, Sharkticon righted his team mate and future victim, bowing to her once again. _The witch knows too much,_ he thought. _If I’m to ever be rid of her, I’ll need to be cunning. Fine… there’s all the time in the world, anyway._

They pulled up four and a half kilometres from the prison door, Chromia dropping her anchor for stability. Sharkticon went below, double-checking their intelligence. “It’s here,” he called over the com-link. “Just where Cruel Lock said it’d be: a crack in the superstructure that’s being ever-eroded by the Rust Sea.” He did a quick spectral analysis. “It’s thin, but it goes all the way down… yep, right to level 26. Game on, mechs and femmes.”

“Excellent,” whispered an ice-cold voice. Though Bludgeon spoke through the communicator, it was like the _metallikato_ master was right alongside. Sharkticon had to stop himself from twitching. “Send Chromia back for me.”

It took a few minutes for the femme to make the round trip – right under the noses of the Autobots’ precious sensor net – and return with the skeletal warrior. Bludgeon sprang lightly from her deck and onto Sharkticon’s back, locking his bony legs around his cylindrical comrade. The animal-like submarine plunged into the depths and made for the break in the wall.

“Hold still,” Bludgeon hissed, shifting on the hull and repositioning himself. “I need as much stability as you can muster, coward.”

The martial artist crossed his legs and knitted his fingers together, making some sort of arcane gesture. Sharkticon didn’t stop to try and decipher it, for its purpose was immediately clear. One of Bludgeon’s ivory-coated swords jiggled, then rose up and slashed through the water. Like a guided missile, it cleaved its way unerringly toward the crack and slipped down through it, riding the current into the depths of the Autobots’ prison.

Keeping still was very easy for Sharkticon – he was mute with appreciation. _Now that’s the way to control a weapon,_ he thought. _Maybe ol’ bone-bot and I should have a few words about a training regime._

He glanced up, his stare piercing Chromia as she floated overhead. _I could suggest at least one target dummy, after all._

Bludgeon’s calcified brow furrowed in concentration. His fingers loosened from their positions and re-knitted in a completely different configuration. He started chanting, his volume extremely low, and it began to sound like he was just issuing static. His skull lifted and a grin spread across his face.

“Soon,” he whispered, the words corrupted by static. “Very soon now. Liberty.”


	3. Chapter 3

“I’m really getting sick and tired of pointing out how damn stupid you are, Optimus Prime.”

Bulkhead winced. Not because of the words themselves but the tone – the enormous fembot’s voice was harsh, grating and heavy on the feedback. Truth to tell, she was part of the reason he’d always been happy to do the long, lonely supply runs to Flyer territory. Any task, irrespective of the boredom involved, was better than dealing with Strika.

Something about the self-appointed Grounders spokes-femme made his bearings shrink. Strika was a six-wheeled all-terrain vehicle – she’d served, in the days of Metroplex, as a prospector and scout. As a result, she knew the Gigalonian geography better than anyone else… and had a higher intolerance of Flyers than anyone else. Strika had come afoul of their tribalism in the past, when most of her fellows believed them to be nothing but vermin. She still bore some of the battle scars, and still wore twin missile launchers on her shoulders.

She glowered down at the Autobots, her emerald optics set into a featureless, khaki-coloured skull. Her upper torso was bulky and her legs spindly – her feet were just two of her wheels, turned on their sides. Like many of the Grounders she was misshapen and ungainly, as if her vehicle mode mattered most. Omega Supreme called them “Vehicons” behind their backs, both for their alt modes and their un-Autobot attitudes, and Bulkhead couldn’t help but agree with the moniker.

“Had you even the most _basic_ grasp of industry, Prime, you’d know Kremzeek’s plan is inherently unsound,” Strika hissed contemptuously. She’d never really taken to the idea of being bossed around by a little red fire truck. “The amount of energy his water wheel produces will scarcely be enough to power his little freaks for the next emulsification. There’s not going to _be_ any surplus for us to take as payment – all the wimps’ll do is create enough power to start the cycle over again!”

Optimus shook his head. “With the greatest of respect, Strika, it’s you whose comprehension is utterly lacking,” he intoned.

It mattered little that he was hundreds of times smaller than his opponent, or that she stood beside the great meeting table while he stood on it. The steel in Prime’s voice was obvious, and the giant femme actually did a double-take. To Bulkhead’s satisfaction, so did her cronies. Wrecker Hook – the dim, single-minded green tow truck – grunted with surprise. Blastcharge – an ebony, articulated semi-trailer – growled, flexing his tyre-festooned arms and legs.

Best of all, Scavenger… the mech who dared use the name of Bulkhead’s late mentor… cowered just a little, his green and orange body slinking into shadow. _Good,_ the helicopter thought. _That crane-necked freak deserves to come down a peg or three._

“I beg your pardon?” Strika demanded.

“Only one of the three Flyer species needs be involved in the process,” Optimus continued smoothly, “if the mud is being supplied from outside sources. The red and yellow types have no role – only the blue types are required to agitate the mud’s molecules. That means only they risk Energon depletion, leaving their fellows fully-fuelled. With careful rostering, no blue Fliers will fall into stasis lock, meaning the Energon can be stockpiled for community use.”

“And,” Omega Supreme added pointedly, “leaving a surplus for Grounder use. Everyone wins.”

Strika cocked her head, ready to argue, but was interrupted.

“That, in my opinion, seals the deal, “ Railspike said pleasantly. His partners, Rapid Run and Midnight Express, nodded their agreement.

Bulkhead was very glad for the presence of Team Bullet Train – the three mechs responsible for the transport of ore and materials across Gigalonia. The gigantic trains could pull thousands of times their own bodyweight – no small feat, considering their towering, bulky frames – as well as combine into an even larger robot. Used the gestalt technology designed by Landfill, they became Rail Racer – a being with almost as much demolition power as the late Metroplex.

“Of course, Strika, you’re welcome to disagree,” Railspike went on, ever-so-politely, “and I’m sure Optimus will continue to listen.”

“Still, it’s a waste of exhaust,” the always-belligerent Rapid Run added, crossing his arms over his chest. “Because what the Prime says, goes. You dig?”

Strika’s long, needle-like fingers writhed with frustration. She sighed loudly. “If my counsel is to be ignored, I’ll stop offering it.” Her optics darkened. “I’ll make sure all our refuse and offal is collected up for the benefit of the bottom-feeders. The trains can take it out to the canyons… I’ll have nothing more to do with this moronic charity.”

She spun around, her foot tyres leaving skid marks on the polished floors, and stalked off. Blastcharge and Scavenger followed immediately. Wrecker Hook stood dumbly until he was pulled unceremoniously out the door by one of his peers.

“That went well,” Bulkhead said.

“Just prime,” Optimus agreed. “I’ve spent too much time with Kicker, picking up his attitude toward things. Ten years is nothing for our race but, after a decade of dealing with _that,_ I’d swear it feels like a lifetime.”

“Perhaps we should consider returning to Cybertron,” Omega said, and not for the first time.

Optimus’ shoulders slumped and, for a second, his ruby chassis seemed to dull. “No,” he sighed at last. “There are promises to keep, and debts to be repaid. Metroplex risked his existence to reactivate the Planet Key and, in doing so, saved both Cybertron and the universe. What he asked for in return – my hand to guide this planet’s population – is but a small favour.”

“How long will you allow yourself to be tethered to the wishes of a dead mech?” Omega asked.

Prime looked up at his largest soldier, holding his stare evenly. “You can leave,” he said coolly, “any time you wish. I’ve never asked you to stay beyond the limits of your patience.”

From what Bulkhead could determine, Gigalonia was a source of shame for Omega Supreme. He’d arrived on the purple planet as a burned-out would-be pacifist acting solely as transport. By the time he’d returned to Cybertron, for the Battle of Iacon, he was once again the war machine of legend. But whatever had happened to prompt that change had isolated Omega from the rest of his away team – Arcee, Nightbeat, Checkpoint and the ex-Decepticon called Thundercracker – none of whom spoke to him anymore. So it had to be something bad.

The big mech was clearly uncomfortable here, and wanted to leave. He’d been protesting, for many months, that is was past time to leave the Gigalonians to their own fate and focus on matters affecting the Autobots. Optimus, bound by duty as he was, disagreed. Bulkhead held no truck with either opinion, determined only to do whatever it took to redeem himself for his own mistakes.

Omega shuffled his feet. “There is not yet cause for me to leave.”

“I’m pleased you see it that way,” Optimus replied. “Now, I’d like you to transform to construction mode and assist Strika in loading the first mud shipment.” He turned to the larger mechs. “Assuming you three are ready to make an immediate delivery?”

“Absolutely,” exclaimed Midnight Express, the youngest and most enthusiastic member of the team. “If you have me loaded by sundown, the Flyers will have their purple power pumping puree just before dawn tomorrow.”

“Good enough,” Optimus said, giving the thumbs up. “Let’s roll for it.”

\-----

“Go!” Cruel Lock yelled.

Upon his command, Sharkticon grabbed Chromia’s aft-section and pointed her down, dipping her nose into the Rust Sea. The femme loosed all her missiles and fired her deck gun, collapsing the prison door. It gave way with a loud sucking noise – the vacuum created by its destruction greedily gulping down the murky water.

“Ride it!” the tactician snapped, leaping aboard Chromia’s skiff-like vehicle mode and gripping the sides with his talons. “Forget your lightning strikes… this is a tsunami strike!”

The velociraptor felt the water ripping past him, pulling at him, trying to drag him down at its own pace. He felt like laughing at it. He was Cruel Lock of the True Path – nature was his servant, not his master. Water held no power over him, instead it would be the tool that delivered his victory.

They swept through the first floor, tumbling Autobot guards like tenpins. Sharkticon transformed and started tearing and slashing at the hapless fools with his arm blades. Cruel Lock was stunned by the coward’s effectiveness. _Must be the element of surprise,_ he told himself. _When the enemy is clueless, Sharkticon can kill without courage._

Of course, surprise was crucial to the whole operation. Despite his genius, Checkpoint was as blind as any other Autobot if robbed of his sensor read-outs. Much of the prison’s security, and the response times of its guards, relied on those constant feeds of information. Had they been mere Decepticons, Cruel Lock’s team would have been noticed the moment they breached Cybertron’s troposphere. But they were of the True Path and so slipped, undetected, wherever they wanted.

He leaped aside. Chromia launched her assault, her missile chambers glowing with radiation and heat. Guards flew to pieces, utterly overwhelmed. She and Sharkticon continued riding the wave… following the plan… down to the second and third floors. Killing anyone they found.

Cruel Lock reached out and snagged a wall plate, dug in with his talons for purchase, and hung there. He transformed to dinosaur mode and used his claws to crab-walk along the wall, rounding corners and making for the control room. _Who better than a battlefield tactician to carry out a prison break?_ he thought happily.

A guard was coming up from behind. Cruel Lock knew that because of the way his scales twitched. Animal senses often worked were scanners and sensors failed. He lashed out with his tail, neatly cleaving the interloper in half, and continued on his way. Another swipe of his tail brought down the control room door and gave him access to his target… the lighting system.

Those staffing the room were but a momentary distraction – the water knocked them off balance, his teeth and tail took care of the rest – before he transformed to robot mode and dropped to the floor. The claws on his feet gave him a solid stance, but still he waited until the room filled completely before striding toward the main console.

The first floor of the prison was entirely underwater. The second and third floors were likely filling now. Absently, the velociraptor wondered how long it would be before someone activated some pumps, or sealed an airlock, to protect the guards and the prisoners. He hoped it would be soon… he had no wish to kill Decepticons, godless and misguided though they be. Still, the thought of this chamber of horrors sinking beneath the waves forever greatly appealed to him.

He draped his fingers over the console, quickly locating the lighting system. Cruel Lock isolated the overhead lights on level 26 and pressed his thumb to the button. “Time to identify ourselves,” he gurgled through the rushing water.

\-----

“I have no idea who they are, and even less idea how they breached defences both local and planetary!”

Checkpoint was yelling into the com-link and giving Inferno a headache. The security chief had done a lot of babbling, from which the guard had pulled only a couple of useful facts. One: a bunch of filthy ‘cons had broken into the prison. Two: they’d somehow dodged every sensor scan being beamed out of the planet. Three: every guard on levels one, two and three was dead. Checkpoint would be among the corpses had he not been inspecting level 12 at the time.

“No prizes for guessing where they’re headed,” Inferno snapped, brandishing his arm cannon. “Sure, there are some nasty customers on the upper levels. But with his ranks depleted the way they are, ol’ Starscream would be sending his bagmen right down to the bottom floor for these red-light specials I’ve been proto-sitting.”

“An excellent deduction,” Checkpoint replied. “I’ll not be sending you any extra assistance, however. My goal is to stop them no deeper than level 12. And…”

“… I’d tell ya to stick your extra help anyway,” Inferno laughed. “Good to know you remember.”

“Don’t let me down, old friend,” Checkpoint said. “Should they reach you…”

“The first slug’s for Wheeljack, the second’s for Crumplezone and the third’s for me,” Inferno said grimly. “I got you covered, siren-boy. Been great working with you.”

The warden was silent for a moment. “Till all are one,” he said, finally, then closed the connection.

Inferno laughed slightly – part nerves, part anticipation. _Well, this is what you wanted,_ he reminded himself. _A chance to be of value, to be worthwhile, to make a difference. You’ve guarded these scrap heaps for years, now you have to fight off their friends… or, worst case scenario, take some pre-emptive action._ He shrugged. _If that happens, big slagging deal. I’ve had a good life, and that’ll be a good death… something mechs can remember me by. Something honourable like the way Firestar went out. Damn, but I miss that femme._

The lights went out. He cursed and went to activate his vehicle mode headlights. Before he could, the lights came back on… and went out again. For a full minute, the power flickered in and out, bathing the room in light and dark and leaving spots on his optic sensors. Then it stopped, as suddenly as it began. “Trust Checkpoint to worry about the lights when we’re being attacked,” Inferno chuckled.

He looked into Wheeljack’s cell and his jaw dropped in shock – the psycho had _moved_. He was pressed up against the wall, fingers tapping against the plasteel… tapping to Crumplezone.

Inferno ran the couple of steps to the front of the big mech’s cell, but it was too late. The brute had risen from the corner, uncoiled his blocky arms and started _pounding_ on the floor. The metal groaned, shrieked and gave way but Crumplezone didn’t cease his assault. Stubby fingers grasped wiring and pulled it up, fracturing more of the floor and tearing gouges up into the walls.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Inferno roared, though he knew it wouldn’t work. “Settle down, ape-mech!”

Wheeljack laughed, low and haunting. His optics were all but bugging out of his face plate. It was the coldest sound Inferno had ever heard – more chilling than the fire-retardants in his cannon. Crumplezone said nothing as he continued smashing the bottom of his cell.

 _How strong is he?_ Inferno wondered as fear crept through his systems. _How the heck have we kept him here all this time? And why’s he flipping out now?_

There was only one thing for it. Inferno reached across and slapped the control for the auto-guns. Then he pumped the bolt-action on his cannon – ensuring it was set for munitions, not fire-fighting – took a deep breath and deactivated Crumplezone’s force bars. He levelled his weapon at the still-raging Decepticon, who took no notice, and walked in slowly.

Four steps in, Inferno realised he’d made a horrible, horrible mistake. Four steps in, Inferno saw the hole in the corner of Crumplezone’s cell… the hole that had been obscured by his curled-up body… the hole that was leaking Rust Sea water. The dripping hadn’t been a product of his imagination after all – the damn ocean had been _eroding_ its way through the prison!

Something thin, long and white flashed. Inferno doubled over.

Agony tore through his circuitry, turning his vision red and filling his mouth with oil. His fuel pump roared in his audio sensors and he strained, gasping, to see what had happened. The hydraulics in his cheek twitched when he found it. A long, thin sword – more like a curved piece of bone – jutted from his back. Its hilt was flush against his chest, too deep for him to easily remove. He tried, but the pain was so intense he had to give up. Through the torment, his processor registering more important tasks – securing the cell and sounding the alarm. _Can’t let Checkpoint… get attacked… from both sides…_ he rasped internally. _Got to… let him know…_

He knew he wasn’t going to make it. So did the prisoners.

Even through the static in his audio sensors, he could tell Crumplezone had stopped his vandalism – his _distraction._ As he fell to his knees, the Decepticon knuckled past and turned the corner, long arms already caressing the switch to release Wheeljack. As he slumped to his stomach, the sword hilt painfully bashing against the floor, he saw the killer walk free and shake the dust from his black bodywork. And as his vision gave out, enveloping him in darkness, Inferno’s audio sensors picked up one final sound…

… Wheeljack’s laughter.

\-----

“Amazing!” Kremzeek giggled with glee. “Stupendous! Astounding!”

He was so happy, he barely noticed Midnight Express shake his head and chuckle. “You Flyers – such funny little guys,” the train said. “I can’t think of another race, mechanical or otherwise, that’d be so happy about an overnight delivery of sludge.”

“Much about us is misunderstood,” Kremzeek offered, regaining his composure. “If more Grounders were open-minded like you, young one, that would be less so.”

“Don’t thank me – thank the Prime. He’s opened a lot of optics to a lot of things these last few years… me and the boys, we’re just more receptive than some of the others. They’ll come around. Mechs like to forget Blender was just as culpable in that whole mess as were Frenzy and Rumble.”

Kremzeek transformed, scuttled across to the train in his alt mode, then returned to robot shape. “Thank you for your help… and your insight,” he said, stretching out a tiny hand. He winced as the much larger mech took it, realised his own strength, and loosened his grip. “I look forward to seeing you for the next delivery.”

He watched as Midnight Express re-took the shape of a bullet train and roared off, down the tracks, back to Gigantian. Kremzeek had never seen the capital city of the Grounders but he assumed it would be spectacular; a mighty monument befitting a race so large, so impossibly tall that they _couldn’t see deceit when it was right in front of them._

A transformation and a few minutes of scuttling took the Flyer leader down the side of the cliff and into the catchment. Halfway down the wall lay the entrance to his personal tunnel. It widened with every minute, and he sped up as he neared the main chamber. His battle suit – Menasor – stood proudly in the centre of it, power cables snaking across its deadly curves and superstructures. Cables just like those were attached to the other Molediver suits secreted within the cliffs, all drawing power from the water wheel.

Being such tiny beings, the Flyers required far less Energon than a regular Transformer. Not that Kremzeek had disabused Optimus Prime of his charitable notions. Each week’s “meagre” supply was enough to power the whole population for six months – their stockpiles were full to overflowing. Indeed, Kremzeek had planned to launch their emancipation before the end of the year… until _they_ arrived.

It had been _their_ idea to continue the subterfuge and construct the water wheel. The concept neatly meshed _their_ goals with those of Kremzeek. He needed power, enough to ensure the Grounders were defeated once and for all. _They_ needed an object buried somewhere on Gigalonia. _They_ needed the planet scoured for the artefact without drawing Optimus Prime’s attention. The water wheel fulfilled both needs: the Flyers got a cheap, renewable source of Energon, _they_ had a race of unwitting fools searching for the very thing that would guarantee their downfall. Every new shipment of mud, every site excavated and cleaned out, was a step closer to the ultimate goals of the new alliance.

Not to mention a water wheel was a nice symbol of _their_ beliefs – merging the organic with the metallic to guarantee absolute dominance.

“Thizz Energon izz no good,” came a voice from somewhere near the Menasor’s feet. “It tazztes like dirt and mud and yucky stuff. Buzzsaw will not uzze it… leave it for creepy little guyzz.”

Kremzeek dropped to the floor and transformed, greeting Buzzsaw with a wave. “I’m sorry it’s not to your liking,” he told the neon yellow helicopter. “But that was local mud, and the first test run. It’s our hope we’ll have refined the process well before the emancipation.”

Buzzsaw took another bite of the cloudy pink Energon cube, then spat it on the floor. “Buzzsaw is glad to hear that,” he coughed, trying to dislodge an errant piece of energy. “Going to need to dip in to old zztuff juzzt to get through.”

“Come now, Buzzsaw – things are hardly that bad,” said another. “As far as missions go, this is one of the best.”

“Ha!” Buzzsaw laughed mirthlessly. “Eazzy for you to say, Reptilion – you can turn invisible, can zztill go outzzide whenever you want to. Poor Buzzsaw muzzt zztay inzzide at all timezz, juzzt in cazze zzomeone zzeezz Buzzsaw!” He sighed loudly. “It’zz not fair. At all.”

Reptilion faded into view, a mass of tools and gauges clutched in his oversized, scaly hands. A horrible parody of a smile spread across his murky green features. “It’s not that I’m invisible, you dullard, merely that I can camouflage myself against any background,” he sniffed proudly. “On this planet, that’s hardly difficult given the somewhat limited palette with which I must contend.”

“You were almost seen today,” Kremzeek said darkly. “Bulkhead was watching when you ran across the top of the mudslide. _I_ almost saw you.”

“Pish tosh,” Reptilion sneered, waving one of his feet dismissively. “A momentary lapse, nothing more. In any event, the Wrecker is something of a wreck, processor-wise, and can hardly be relied on for an accurate account of anything. Our situation remains copacetic.”

“And good, too,” Buzzsaw added, tossing the half-eaten cube away.

“Uh… yes,” Reptilion muttered, momentarily taken aback by his comrade. “Within a matter of months, Kremzeek, you shall have all the Energon you need… and we shall have our artifact unveiled, freed and on its way to Cybertron for the end game.”

\-----

He watched, satisfaction flooding his systems, as the midnight-black sports car burst from the Rust Sea. A three-wheeled, monstrous racer followed a split second later, joining those of the True Path that had gathered on the edge of the Hydrax Plateau. The waters had receded here, just enough, to create the perfect rendezvous sight.

Three or four minutes passed before Bludgeon joined them, rising out of the muck like a reanimated corpse. He said nothing; merely held out his hand with his palm up. Wheeljack transformed, reached around behind himself and revealed the warrior’s sword. He handed it to the _metallikato_ master.

“Cute trick,” he rasped, synthesiser corrupted from lack of use. Might have to get you to teach it to me sometime.”

“You lack the discipline,” Bludgeon whispered, sheathing the weapon on his leg.

Wheeljack frowned, teeth bared. Crumplezone started to move forward… and Cruel Lock thrust himself between them. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said, ever the peacemaker. “The Autobots had managed to close the level 12 blast door… we’d not have made it through were it not for you attacking from the other side.”

The former Autobot glared at him, then relaxed. Crumplezone took a step back. “Pleasure,” Wheeljack sneered, his optics widening and becoming more intense. “I would have liked to have found Checkpoint, finished off the job I started back on Gigalonia.” He sighed. “Next time. There were too many cannon fodder guards between him and me.”

“You received our offer, I take it?”

“Old Decepticon signal code flashed by the roof lighting,” Wheeljack nodded, his grin utterly feral. “Neat trick, that. Yeah, I received it, and the boy,” he gestured over his shoulder, “does whatever I tell him to. So I speak for both of us when I say… we’re in.”

“Wonderful,” Cruel Lock said. “I’ll just…”

He yelped as Wheeljack grabbed him by the throat. “The thing you’ve got to understand is we’re not joining your cause,” he growled, nose to nose with the Terrorcon. “You rescued us when Starscream and his oiks had stopped caring – that gets you a certain amount of amnesty. But you cross me, start preaching to me, or whip up some kinda flesh suit for myself or the boy, and I’ll force-feed you your own fuel lines.”

Cruel Lock managed to nod, and Wheeljack shoved him back to the ground. “Now,” the killer said pleasantly. “Where’s our transport off this rock?”

The velociraptor rubbed his neck and grinned. _Exactly as Predacon predicted,_ he thought, giving thanks for the insight of his lord and master. _Now we have our berserkers. Cool, calculated, highly skilled cannon fodder. The plan moves into its next phase._

\-----

“I can assure you, Grimlock, that Inferno will live.”

“Pah!”

As soon as word of the escape leaked out, Checkpoint had been summoned to a meeting at the Decagon, in Iacon. Just as he would have expected, Silverstreak and Red Alert were there… but so was Grimlock. With Optimus on safari and Ultra Magnus on Earth, the Dinobot was the highest-ranking member of the elite. Which put him in charge of Cybertron.

Which made any kind of meeting with high command decidedly uncomfortable.

“Care not for washed-up old firemech trying to make use of himself!” Grimlock roared, pounding the conference table with one mighty fist. “Want to know how Wheeljack and Crumplezone escaped!”

The security chief hesistated. “We’re still collating data from the cameras and sensors that weren’t destroyed in the flood,” he said slowly. “I’ve also called in three specialists to help me with the debrief, the analysis and the hunt for the fugitives. And we can confirm Sharkticon, Chromia and Cruel Lock as the invaders. But…”

“But?” Red Alert asked gently. Silversteak leaned in closer, while Grimlock’s optics flashed a dangerous red.

“But, with regard to how they escaped, Inferno said something quite strange. He said they did it by keeping quiet.”

\-----

“Quiet out here, ain’t it?”

“Mm.” Downshift was concentrating. He would not transform to robot mode until he was sure the area was secure. They’d rushed out of the base so fast he’d forgotten to grab half of his equipment – the stun fields, the neural recompositor, even the inertia ray – and so was, by his standards, defenceless. That meant caution and good judgement came to the fore even more than usual, which meant no transforming until…

“Oh man, that feels good,” Scattorshot yawned as he stretched out his golden arms. Downshift did a double-take – the 2IC was in robot mode! Flustered, he transformed as well and tried to hide his annoyance. Did no one understand what sort of a world they lived in?

Scattorshot walked to the water’s edge and dipped in one finger. The yellow discs on his head glowed a little brighter. “This is th’ entry an’ exit point,” he drawled, “y’cn tell from the ionisation that’s still on th’ ground. That an’ the honkin’ great feathers Divebomb left behind.” He picked one up and twiddled it between thumb and forefinger. “Wonder what Swoop’ll think o’ his ol’ playmate going native on us, hey?”

“If it even matters to him,” Downshift mumbled, stopping low to study the water. “The way I hear it, that crazy Dinobot just wants to slag the ‘con irrespective of the chassis he’s wearing.” He looked around. “Is it just me, or does this place look familiar?”

The smaller mech scanned the area. “I think we used ta bring Koji and Misha here a bit, in th’ early days,” he said, smiling with the memories. “Wasn’t her first presentation in that room over there, th’ one what overlooks the bay?”

“Bingo,” Downshift confirmed. “We used to come here a lot, actually. After I changed my alt mode, Kicker would often ask my for lifts ‘cause I’ve got a back-seat bolt for a baby seat. Perfect for little Koji.”

“Not so little now.”

“Not at all.” Pleasant thoughts drifted through Downshift’s processor. He shut them off before they led to their usual place – the day Tow-Line died. “Point is, we had to get here somehow and it wasn’t always convenient to take the local roads. Traffic and stuff, especially if we had to come over the bridge. There’s a gridlock that’d put the Tagon Heights to shame.”

“What’re you getting’ at?” Scattorshot asked. “Ya look a little haunted, buddy.”

“I _feel_ a little haunted,” the engineer replied. He pointed out to the centre of the bay. “Because we came here so much, Magnus decided it was the perfect location to test out a new technology. That was when the Build Team was still with us…”

“Buildin’ th’ Global Space Bridge, I remember.”

“Yeah – the series of Transwarp tunnels that get us across the Earth in record time. Well, the very first of those tunnels… the first ever GSB… ended just out there, in the bay. Before it was decommissioned, there was a length of hidden road leading to the service area below the science centre, too.”

Scattorshot blanched. “Yer sayin’ it, ain’tcha? Yer sayin’ what I think yer sayin’.”

“I probably am,” Downshift muttered. “What are you thinking?”

“The Global Space Bridge… somehow, Divebomb an’ his friends have gotten access to it. They used th’ GSB t’ travel here undetected and sneak up on ev’rybody, Autobot and human alike!”

Downshift looked out to the bay. “Yeah,” he whispered. “The Terrorcons are using our own technology against us… and they’re doing it without us being able to detect their presence.”


End file.
